


war wounds (and other minor injuries)

by HelenaKey



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Canon Jewish Character, Character Study, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Multi, Nightmares, No Beach Divorce, Post X-Men: First Class, Post-Cuba, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-11 07:15:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3318749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelenaKey/pseuds/HelenaKey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war had left injuries more mental than physical in Erik. No matter how much he tried, no matter what he did, Shaw's memory and everything that had happened in the camps would not let him find peace. He thought that he could control it, that eventually, it would get better; but ever since Cuba things had only gotten worse. When his memories become unbearable, and he starts to hurt himself and people around him, Charles must decide between staying with the man he loves or walking away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the war that never happened

_“Good evening, my fellow citizens.”_

The Television Set in Charles's bedroom was small, compared to the one he had in his living room. It was placed barely a few inches away from the bed frame, and yet, when the lights were turned off, and the light of the screen was the only thing illuminating the room, it was difficult to distinguish anything besides blank, blinding flashes and monochromatic colors.

_“This government, as promised, has maintained the closest surveillance of the Soviet Military build-up in the island of Cuba.”_

Erik looked at the screen, squinting his eyes to take a better look, and absently ran a finger over his dry lips. It was late at night, and the light of the television was reflected on his face in black and white shades, making his eyeballs hurt. He leaned back on the bed, feeling the mattress shifting under his weight, and frowned at the pictures displayed in front of him. A man was giving a speech in the White House, facing an euphoric crow; men and woman were cheering for him, applauding his words.

_“Within the past week, unmistakable evidence has established the existence of missile sites, still in preparations, in the Caribbean island. The purpose of these bases can be none other than to provide a nuclear strike capability against the western atmosphere.”_

He felt bile rise up his throat at the mention of the missiles, and had to put his hand above his eyes, trying to appease the headache that was forming behind them. It had happened almost two months ago, the incident in Cuba, but even thought time had passed, the worries and fears that it had left on him and his brothers were still fresh. He remembered the missiles been pointed at them, fired at them; no more than a handful of people standing in a nearby beach, and suddenly felt very conflicted by President Kennedy's speech.

He turned around and looked at Charles, already asleep in the other side of the bed. He had buried his head in a big white pillow, his face barely visible between the trends of brown, overgrown hair. In other moments, the sight might have made him smile; a mere twitch of the lips, almost unnoticeable, appearing on his face. This time, however, it only made him feel anxious. He wondered if the government already knew that Charles Xavier had been one of the mutants present in the incident. He wondered if it was possible that they came for him. They still had relatively good relationships with the CIA, it was truth; but ever since the leader of Division X had died, they had proved that they couldn't be trusted. Were such thing to happen, they wouldn't help them. If it had not been obvious before, it certainly was after Cuba.

He stood up and walked towards the Television set to turn it off. It felt hot to the touch; they had kept it turned on during too much time. He pulled off the blanket from under Charles, and placed it on top of him. The man grumbled softly, shifting between the sheets for a moment before staying still again. Erik lay down beside him, leaning on his elbows, and removed a lock of smooth, brown hair from his face. He heard a distant hooting at the other side of the window; the sound of the crickets making echo in the backyard. He rolled to his back and turned around to face the ceiling. He thought about Cuba, about missiles and the war that never happened, and felt uneasy.

 

* * *

 

It is three AM and the camp is dark and still. Even the sirens and the speakers are quiet. The sky hangs above him like a heavy shroud, black and lifeless. The silence holds expectation, and makes Erik shiver with dread. The air is occasionally broken by distant screams and the loud sound of a rifle been fired. He's waiting, stripped to the usual chair, trapped in the usual room. He stared into the musky night, mocking him with its beauty at the other side of the window. He was sweating, his heart pounding; the silence pressing over him.

This sense of foreboding has been with him before.

Shaw was hovering over him, smiling widely as he always did. Several powerful blasts made the ground below them shake. They were distant, but had a force beyond sound; Erik could felt them internally, resonating in his chest. He looked up at Shaw, and was gripped by terror; a premonition of physical damage, like a horrible slashing of his internal organs.

There were other people in the room. They were all seating around his chair, staring straight ahead; their faces like stone, terrifying to look at. They were all sick; wounded by the forced labor. Some of them were already dead. He felt fear and sadness and rage; and he embraced the feeling. When he felt a strong, almost painful pull inside his head, and the restrains around his wrists finally yielded, he tried to get up from the chair, and Shaw laughed.

In a blind panic, he ran to the closest door, tripping over benches and knocking them over, scrapping his shins, hurting himself and not caring, scrambling over dying bodies. He made it to the backyard and seated there, exhausted and sweating. It was quiet. No one moved. No one talked. There was just dead silence, utter stillness. The red light of the sirens were shinning around him, and he didn't care.

The blasts kept coming from afar, making the whole camp shake in its foundations, and now that he was outside, Erik could see the aircraft flying in the dead sky, pointing their missiles towards them. He was just sitting there, trembling in horror. He knew now that there was no future; that this was the end. He couldn't move his legs. Shaw had drugged him. His mind was slipping away, a heavy blackness washing over him.

Everything was white. He was trudging through deep sand, delirious, straddling in the swirling heat. The sun blazed down from a white sky, baking his skin, sucking out his strength. In his mouth persisted the taste of sand and ashes. _Where did the people go, or there were ever any people?_ He wondered. _Was the world always a dessert? Is this after the war, or before?_ He tried to remember the past, but he couldn't. The past no longer existed. Erik knew that he had done this; he knew that everything that had happened was his fault, and he cried. A long, painfully cry, that broke the eternal silence.

He looked up at Shaw, who smiled widely as he always did. He knew it was only a mirage. Still, in spite of thirst and suffering, he staggered forwards, inspired by lack of purpose or destination. They both fell to the ground, Shaw's back buried in the sand, and Erik on top of him. He took the man's neck between his hands, and blinded by a red rage, he started to squeeze.  

 

* * *

 

At the beginning, Charles didn't realized what was happening. He felt dizzy; trapped in that curious state of mind between dream and reality, and he couldn't breathe. There was a slight pressure in his head; nothing uncomfortable, but a strange sensation, all the same. He felt tingly, like when his foot fell asleep for been in the same position for too long, but the state of numbness was spreading all over his body, to his torso, limps and inside his skull. Two hands were gripping tightly at his neck, hard enough to leave bruises, and no matter how much he tried to, he couldn't get the much needed air into his lungs. He wasn't feeling pain; but he had the feeling that he was trapped, and his whole body was starting to feel weak. He opened his eyes, the feeling of panic chasing away his drowsiness, and saw Erik hovering above him. He was looking down at him with a foreign coldness, his eyelashes partially closed.

Charles struggled to get free, putting his hands around Erik's wrists and trying to put them away. He started to twist under the strongest body, repeatedly kicking his lower stomach, but it was useless. He couldn't push him away, nor could he make him move. They knocked down the clock, books and lamp over the nightstand; the sound of glass shattering ringing loudly in the room. He could feel his face becoming redder, the skin on his cheeks burning, and a blind fear started to rise up his chest. Charles tried to scream, but the pressure on his neck was too much, and his voice wouldn't come out.

He saw inside Erik's mind, and found nothing but a sleepy fog, and a red, never faltering rage. A shimmer of pain rushed through his head, and putting all that was left of his strength in a swift, quick movement, he rolled them over, trying to get on top of Erik. They fell out of the bed and into the floor, taking down the nightstand and the window's curtains with them. A loud clatter made echo in the darkness of the room, and finally, those strong, callous hands let go of his neck, and Charles could breathe.

He crawled out of reach, coughing loudly and putting a hand over the sore skin of his throat. His breathing was irregular, and his heart was beating heavily against his chest. He leaned back against the nearest wall, letting his head rest over the old oak wood, and stared at Erik with astonishment; his eyes glazed over by the lack of air in his lungs, and the death grip on his throat. He was in the floor as well; the nightstand had fallen above his right leg, and the purple curtains of the window were brushing against his shoulder. He was looking at his direction with his eyes wide open, seeming as confused as Charles felt.

He took a few measured breaths, trying to stabilize himself, and took the strands of brown hair that had fallen over his eyes out of the way. He opened his mouth and tried to say something (anything) but the words didn't came out; a strong need to scream was building up in his chest, stirring unpleasantly in his insides, but he remained silent. His ragged breathing was the only thing that could be heard in the room. He reached out for Erik's mind, almost instinctively, and tried to see pass it; into the pounding, intricate tangle of his thoughts.

It was confusing at first. He could only feel a long distortion of ideas; waves of emotions slamming against each other in the dark, coming apart and rearming qualitatively. He felt dread and terror, and could see Shaw's face lingering above him, smiling. A dull ache appeared on his chest; a strange mixture between fear, confusion and sadness, and he had to wonder if this feeling was his own or Erik's. There was pain, desolation and rage; and the blinding, heavy fog that usually came with dreams, nightmares and other workings of the subconscious.

Before he could say anything, Erik stood on his feet, probably realizing what Charles was doing. They looked at each other for a moment, and then he turned his gaze away, and headed towards the door; there was a tremor in his thoughts and a sudden desire to escape that, even without his powers Charles could have noticed. He made no movement to stop him, feeling too confused and scared to do anything else than sit there on the floor and try to breathe. The door made a loud noise when it was closed at Erik's back, and Charles grimaced at the sound.

 

* * *

 

Charles was leaning in the sink of his bathroom, looking at his reflection in the mirror, when he heard a knocking on the door. He didn't turn around at the sound, nor did he made any move to approach and open it. He just stayed there, staring at the angry, red marks around his neck, and the one purple bruise that had been formed below his jaw. He remembered that last flash of pain he felt (Erik's pain, not his) before he let go of him; how, when the rapid thrill of adrenaline began to subside, Charles actually found it familiar. He had felt it many times before, in his sleepless nights; when Erik would stir and turn in the bed besides him, mumbling curses in a strong German accent, and gripping tightly at the sheets. Once again, someone knocked at the door, and Raven's worried voice came from the other side.

“Hey, it's me.” She said evenly; and at those rather distressing moments, Charles found her calmness strange. He looked up at the ceiling for a moment; the light of the lamp making his eyes hurt, and wondered if he should let her in. “Charles?”

He signed tiredly, knowing that he couldn't hide there forever, and stood up to open the door latch. When Raven's blue, always shimmering frame made its way inside the bathroom, Charles couldn't help but frown. Some time ago she had made clear her desire to remain in her natural form, and although grudgingly, he had accept it. The need of stop hiding was, after all, one that many of his mutant residents shared. He couldn't get used to it, tought; it just wasn't the face that he had grew up seeing. Charles ran a hand over his bearded chin, leaning back into the sink, and closed his eyes.

“What's going on?” Raven asked, coming to stand closer to him. “Erik is in the living room looking all upset. I heard you screaming.”

“I wasn't screaming.” Charles responded quickly, and immediately realized that hadn't been a proper answer. She narrowed her eyes at him, and he smiled at her, probably out of nervousness. It wouldn't have fooled anyone, really; specially not Raven. She knew him since a very long time, and far too well to believe his lies. She could easily recognize them when he used that particular tone of voice. _You talk like that when you don't want me to worry,_ she had told him once. “It's nothing. Really.” He insisted, and turned on his heels to head towards the door.

He crossed his room, not minding the wreckage that the fight had left in its wake, and came out to the hall; as expected, Raven followed him. She kept asking him to tell her what had happened as they walked down the hallway. Feeling that very same need of escape that had made Erik walk away and retrieve to the living room, Charles stayed silent and walked faster, ignoring her questions. He wondered if the sound of the fight had been loud enough to wake her up, and if it had awoken someone else. He tried to reach out for another presence, and made sure that the house was quiet (it _felt_ quiet, he could tell that much). Besides his own, Raven's and Erik's he couldn't feel any other mind fully awake; for some reason, that made him feel calmer.

He came down to the kitchen, Raven following closely behind, and opened the drawers of the bar to grab a bottle of scotch. It was something very old, and the writing on the label had almost disappeared completely, but he wanted something strong, and giving the circumstances, he thought that he deserved it. He took a glass from the cupboard and filled it with ice cubes before purring the bottle's content in. Raven watched him with her bright, yellow eyes narrowed. Her staring was slightly unnerving, especially in her natural form, but he did his best to brush it off and ignore it. He pulled out a chair and took a seat at the table, absently sipping from his drink. Raven's nose wrinkled. She took a seat as well.

“… What?” He asked after a few moments of silence, even when he knew exactly what she wanted. She crossed her arms above her chest, looking impatient.

“You know what.” Raven replied, concerned. “What happened? I had never heard you and Erik fight before; not like that. And what's with that mess on your room? Were you throwing things at each other, or what?” Charles passed his hand through his hair, feeling frustrated. He didn't want to explain this to Raven, and he certainly didn't want to talk about it with her. For now, he didn't felt ready to speak about it with anyone.

He looked intently at her, and in a matter of seconds, could see how her expression of worry transformed into one of disbelief. He closed his eyes, and silently cursed. He felt Raven reaching out for him, taking his chin between her cold fingers and tiding his head up. She touched his neck for a moment, before her hand tracked further down, pulling the collar of his shirt out of the way to get a better view. He opened his eyes, and saw Raven staring straight at his face; her lips had formed a thin line, and for the first time in quite some time, Charles found her expression unreadable.

“… Erik did that?” She asked, retrieving his hand and turning to look at the door that lead to the living room. She seemed worried. Even sad. It occurred to him that she was afraid of the answer she would get; Raven had always been very fond of Erik, after all. When he stayed silent, her blue lips parted, looking almost indignant. In other times she might have gotten angry; she might have even started to scream. But ever since Cuba she had changed (all of them had, honestly) and these days she knew that losing one's composure so easily did more harm than good.

“Why?” She asked, crossing her arms above her chest again. She looked strangely stiff; her hands fisting at her sides, and her voice was wavering, if only a little. For a moment, Charles just stared at her, silently tracing the circular edge of his glass. He tried to think in the best way to explain this; to not give Raven a wrong impression of what had happened. He knew that the whole incident, and Erik's behavior towards it, could be rather hard to understand for someone who wasn't a telepath.

“It wasn't intentional.” He ended up saying, licking his lips and shaking his head. “He was… he was having a nightmare.” He scratched the back of his head, putting in place a lock of brown hair that had covered his view, and could see how Raven's bright eyes widened at the answer.

“And _this_ is what he does when he has a nightmare?” She asked in a loud voice, sounding incredulous. Her loud tone made him cringe, and he immediately turned to look behind him, towards the door that lead to the living room. He hoped Erik hadn't heard that (he hoped he hadn't heard any part of their conversation, for that matter).

“No, no, this…” He started, turning to look at Raven again. He faltered for a moment, not knowing what to say. He knew that his eyes were still red (crossed by small veins that made him look tired, somehow defeated) and he hoped that the darkness in the kitchen was enough for Raven not to notice. “This had never happened before.” He responded, almosy pained.

Raven stayed silent at that, and for some moments, she just looked at him up and down, as if searching for something. Whatever it was, she probably didn't find it (or maybe she did, and it didn't made her feel any better). So she just signed heavily, closing her eyes, and turned to look away. Charles didn't miss the way that she started to bite her lower lip; it was a reflex, completely unconscious, and it happened whenever she felt nervous or worried.

“I… I can handle this, okay?” He assured her, taking a long sip of his glass of scotch. When it came back to rest in the wood of the table, it made a loud thud. “Just, don't tell anyone about this. It'll only make things worse.” 

“You can handle it? Your boyfriend tried to choke you in the middle of the night! How's that handling anything?!” She asked in a hiss, standing up from the chair. She tried to head to the door and out of the room, but before she could go, Charles grabbed her right arm, making her spin around to face him.

“I'm serious, Raven. Don't tell anyone.” He asked again, in the firmest voice that he could manage. She looked at him for a moment, staring at the marks around his neck once again, and her eyes were full of concern again. As always, she tried not to show it, and yanked her arm out of his grasp.

“I won't. That doesn't mean that I get to like it.” She said cuttingly, fixing him with her gaze. Charles nodded at her, looking relieved.

“Thank you.” He said meaningfully, his eyebrows furrowed. Raven shrugged, as if it was not a big deal, and turned around to get out of the kitchen. Charles followed her with his gaze until she disappeared through the wooden door, and remained there for a few seconds. He passed a hand over his beard, the pointy ends filling scratchy already, and faced his drink once again. He hadn't even realized when he had finished it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is my first work in the X-Men Fandom and I'm kind of nervous. I've always wanted to write something about Erik's PTSD, because is something that is quite obvious in the movies, but they never actually speak about it. I hope I have managed to give this idea the story that it deserves ;D
> 
> Kudos and feedback make this world happier!


	2. that day in Cuba

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At least if his wounds were physical, he thought, and not mental, he could remain who he was all the time, even if that made him a disable person. But Shaw had got deep inside his head since he was but a child; he had broke things at his wake that, Erik was sure, couldn't be fixed again.

The sun was barely visible in the horizon. The morning was cold, and it made Erik shiver under his night clothes. He was still dressed in a sleeping gown; the stealthy shadows of the courtyard were carrying a spare breath of winter. As he had done with his shoes, that were quickly soaked by the humidity left by the rain the night before, he ignored the cold and kept walking.

There was no one else in the footpath. That morning, Charles wasn't jogging around the house, with his old gray jersey covered by sweat. Raven wasn't calmly reading a book at the foot of the hill. All the other kids were gathered in the living room, probably looking at the television and trying to forget about the cold weather. Azazel was nowhere in sight, either. It was just Erik, with no company, walking with a steady pace. He was glad for that loneliness. He had the strange idea that if he were to meet another person he would have felt compelled to say: _Last night I tried to choke the man I love while he was sleeping, but it wasn't on purpose._

He hadn't slept last night; not after the incident in the bedroom. His mind always came back to that moment; to Charles's body twisting under his, trying to get free. To his cheeks growing redder by the second. To the fear shining in his kind blue eyes. 

At least if his wounds were physical, Erik thought, and not mental, he could remain who he was all the time, even if that made him a disable person. But Shaw had got deep inside his head since he wa a child; he had broke things at his wake that, Erik was sure, couldn't be fixed again. He was angry, and he wanted to hit, kick something; instead he just kept walking uphill. He was hearing his breathing. It was stable. Normal. In no way altered. He would have much preferred a winding, rough sound, something to tell the world that he was afraid, or angry; that he was feeling something. But he couldn't. Hide fear was just one of the many things that he had learned in the camps.

Suddenly, he remembered the last time he had seen Shaw, in Cuba.

Charles had frozen him in place right in front of Erik; his right arm extended forwards, trying to catch the helmet that had been taken from him. Everything that Erik had wanted to do in that moment was end with that wretched man's life; for he had been convinced that with that one act of revenge, all the angriness, all the pain and sorrow that had haunted him ever since his mother's death, would finally disappear. Practically all his life before the camps had been focused in that goal alone; kill the man that had transformed an innocent child in the monster that he was today. And, how much had he fantasized about it! How the glint in his eyes and the color on his face would disappear; never capable of smiling darkly at him in his wicked amusement. Never capable of hurting him again.

But time had passed since the camps, and Erik had learned that there was more in the world than just anger. That night, when he had almost drowned in the deep dark ocean in his chase for Shaw, and a man had jumped after him, pulling him out of the cold waters, Erik had learned that there were others like him. That he wasn't as alone as he thought he was. And that made him falter, that day in Cuba, while staring directly at Shaw's frozen eyes; remembering everything that he had gained, and how he could easily loose it in favor of cold blooded revenge.

Shaw got to live, and after all the missiles were down, forever buried under the deep waters of the Cuban borders, Moira MacTaggert and the rest of the CIA's agents involved in the incident took him away to a highly secured prison in The Pentagon. Before leaving, she had promised them that the man would not be bothering them anymore; not where he was now. Erik had wanted to believe her, and for a while he actually did. Later, it became obvious that no matter what happened to Shaw; if he disappeared, or was imprisoned or killed. He would always haunt Erik; as a gnawing feeling in the back of his head, as sleepless nights after bad dreams and nightmares, as a natural fear towards unwarned physical contact. And his only comfort had been that, as painful as they were, memories couldn't hurt him or the people that he loved. Because what were memories, in the end, when standing before reality?

Last night he discovered that he had been wrong.

It took him ten minutes to get to the top of the hill. The sunlight was filtering over the house in the west. Spring would come soon; he could see early flowers already. A band of geese were flying across the air above him, heading north. Their hoarse croak echoed in the pale blue sky. Everything was so clearly normal that he felt a little stupid, because what was happening inside him seemed poorly tuned to the rest of the world.

He knew that he should go back to the house; that no matter how painful and unpleasant it was, he needed to talk with Charles about what had happened. He just couldn't bring himself to do it. He felt too ashamed to go back, especially now that Raven knew about the incident too. She had to know, if the look she had sent at his way that morning was anything to go by.

 _Maybe_ , he thought, _I should stay here_. It was a nice place. He wondered if the night temperatures would drop enough to make him freeze to death. He doubted it. He imagined that he would just spend an unpleasant night shivering and coughing, and would live to see the light of another day. That would be pretty embarrassing. He would probably be the only person in the whole world to see the sunrise as a failure.

He sighed and turned to look at the house again. It didn't take him long to realize that he really didn't know how to fix this problem. Erik had poor recollections of his past before Shaw. He was nothing but a baby, when The Reich forced Jews to wear the Star of David on their clothes, visible for authorities to see; nothing but a boy when they were forced to live in the Ghettos, away from the pure-blooded members of society. Twelve years he had, when his mother was killed right before his eyes, and his fate was placed in Sebastian Shaw's hands. Erik couldn't conceive a life lived without fear; for fear had been his entire world, ever since that moment.

If killing Shaw would not make these feelings stop, if the utter annihilation of the whole Third Reich would not bring him peace, and the warm presence of friends and family would not appease his worries, then what would do it?

 

* * *

 

_That day in Cuba, when the thousands of missiles targeted at their way went suddenly still, all that was left of his powers focused in keeping them in place, was a moment that, even if he wanted to, Erik would never forget. He had been standing in the shoreline, his right hand extended towards the imminent attack, and even when he stood his ground, not daring to move a single muscle, he always remembered the fear running wildly through his heart and mind, prompting him to desist and simply run. It was an absurd thought, really; for no matter how fast and far he ran, he wouldn't escape from a nuclear strike with his legs alone. And yet it was there, consuming the most rational part of his brain. Numbing his senses._

_Erik had been running all his life. From the first moment that the Red Army broke into the concentration camps, looking for survivors and war prisoners, an ever present need to escape was born in his heart. He didn't ran, thought; not immediately. He was given food, water and medical care, as well as to the other prisoners. Most of them couldn't believe that it was actually happening; many of them cried, not out of joy or happiness, but out of grief and shock. There was no celebration that day, or laughs, or smiles. Just utter and blind bewilderment._

_The Russians were good to them, despite their initial reticent behavior. They smiled, and shook the children's small hands to give them chocolate. There were even more tears after that; it had been years since any of them had eat a decent meal, let alone chocolate. Later, the URSS would offer them political asylum, just as United Kingdom, USA and many other countries did. Most of the survivors accepted them and fled to other nations as soon as possible; Erik did not._

_He learned how to work, how to make fast money, and began to jump from city to city, from country to country and (later, when he learned how to make a fake but credible passport) from continent to continent. That's when he started running; escaping from family, friends, jobs, nations and ultimately, any type of boundaries that could make him feel trapped. Make him feel, and think and remember._

_That day in Cuba, Erik knew that he couldn't run anymore. He wasn't a monster now; he was part of something bigger than him, he was making something important, and not even his worst nightmares and fears could take that away from him. Slowly, just fast enough to make the ocean waves crumble apart under their weight, the missiles started to fall, and something painful and heavy seemed to drop out of Erik's shoulders. He was not afraid anymore; for that one and single moment, while looking at the ocean open and tremble at his wake, he felt finally free._

_When everything was over, and both Russian's and American's warships started to back away, Raven was the first one to approach him. Erik felt confused, bewildered by the previous events, and when the girl ran towards him without any kind of precaution (moved just by fear, concern and perhaps some rare type of happiness) and surrounded him with her arms, he didn't quite understood what was happening. She felt unexpectedly cold to the touch, while being in her natural form, but right in that moment, under the blazing sun of the beach and between the confusing sensations stirring inside his chest, he welcomed the feeling._

 

* * *

 

“What happens with Lehnsherr now?” Azazel asked, drawing the curtains to see through the kitchen's window, and take a better look at the sad looking form standing in the backyard. The man had been outside for quite a while now, seemingly not caring about the storm that had ravaged the gardens the night before. Even from afar, Azazel could see that his sleeping gown was wet and dripping; he didn't know what was bothering Erik this time, but for some reason, the sight made him feel bad for him.

“I don't know.” Raven said from the other side of the room, pouring milk in a bowl of cereal. She was wearing a sleeping gown as well; a white clothe of a pure cotton fabric, that she usually wore around the house during late hours, or early in the morning. Such thing seemed strange to most of the other residents, for she didn't use any other type of clothe during the rest of the day. Azazel supposed that it was because of the cold, or maybe just a very old habit that she couldn't get rid of.

The man narrowed his eyes at her, noticing the way she stood suddenly stiff at Erik's mention. “Something bothers you.” He said, and it spunded more like an affirmation than as a question. Raven's hands stilled over the trail of food that she was carefully arranging, the small spoon that she was going to use to mix the coffee with the milk hovering in the air. She didn't turn to face him, her yellow eyes remaining glued to the kitchen's table.

“Why do you think that?” She asked, in a rather neutral tone of voice. It might have fooled any other person; in the last weeks Raven had became rather good in hiding her emotions from the other residents of the house (why would she want to do that, was something that Azazel still needed to figure out). But he was a man of world; one that had deceived and been deceived since before she was a little girl, and could only do as much as lie to her parents about grade notes or some occasional act of mischief. He noticed, obviously, the distress on her voice.

Raven took the tray between her hands and lifted it, doing her best to not spill the milk on the bowl of cereal or the contents of the cup of coffee. She tried to head towards the door, keeping her balance. However, before she could give more than four steps forwards, Azazel moved to stand on her way, his nice, red lips smiling down at her with amusement. Raven, on her part, didn't seem amused at all.

“Azazel, don't start.” She said cuttingly, not feeling in the mood to stand the man's provocations. With nothing else to do, she turned on her heels to get out of the kitchen through a second door, located only a few meters away. However, before she could reach it a strange, reddish substance began to spread around her; a not so unexpected premonition of Azazel's next appearance. Some weeks ago, the trick would have startled her; but now it was in the long list of anomalies that she found normal in her day to day.

“ _Something bothers you._ ” Azazel insisted, his dark eyebrows going up in expectation. Raven frowned, not quite understanding why the man was been so persistent about this. For a few seconds, they just stared at each other, not saying anything. The rather playful expression on Azazel's face made Raven's blue lips twitch, trying to suppress the incoming smile. Her shoulders dropped a little.

“It's nothing, really.” She lied, shrugging. “I just don't want to talk about it.”

“Why not…? Are Lehnsherr and you fighting?” He asked, turning to look at the window and beyond it, and then at Raven again. Finally, the girl left some of her uneasiness crawl up to her face, shifting from one foot to the other under Azazel's gaze. The man frowned, feeling puzzled. “…Now, this is new. Why so _blue,_ all of a sudden?”

Raven actually laughed at the game of words; founding amusing how the old colloquialism sounded in the man's strong Russian accent. For a moment and only a moment, she considered to tell Azazel what she had seen last night; if only for telling someone about it and get rid of the acrid taste the secret left on her mouth. He was not very talkative when the other kids were concerned, and she doubted he would spill the beans easily. However, she immediately decided against it. He and Erik had never gotten along (not for a personal matter, really, but for Azazel's former relations with Shaw) and she doubted that telling him this would make things between them any better.

 “… Sorry. I really can't talk about it.” She ended up saying, giving him an apologetic smile. He didn't seem satisfied with that answer, thought.

“Ah, so it's a secret:” Azazel asked, in a pleased voice. “And what kind of secret could _you_ be possible hiding?”

“I can't tell. If I did, it wouldn't be a secret.” Raven responded, turning on her heels once again and heading towards the other door. This time, Azazel didn't follo her, nor did he appeared in her way, between a red, strange looking substance. He just stood there in the middle of the kitchen, a big smile still clear on his face.

“You'll tell me eventually, I'm sure.” He said right before she could pass through the door way. This time, she didn't bother to turn his gaze towards him to give him an answer. She was trying to hide the small, amused smirk that he had unfolded on her face; she just couldn't give him the satisfaction.

“I'm warning you, Azazel. Stop it. ” She said quietly, looking at him just for the corner of her eye and raising a challenging index finger on the air. He laughed behind her; amused. Raven let out a tired sigh, seeming exasperated, and finally exited the kitchen. Once outside, she started to walk upstairs, heading to Charles's office in the second floor. “Do not get mad, _Solnuzhka!_ It is just curiosity!” She heard from afar after a few seconds, as yet another deep, nice chuckle traveled through the hallway, reaching her small blue ears and making her smile again.

 

* * *

 

_When everything was over, and The Division X slowly started to retrieve from the small Caribbean island, Erik was the first one to enter their airplane, looking for some quietness. The CIA Agents that would eventually take Shaw away to The Pentagon, out of their lives once and for all, haven't arrived yet. Outside, Moira and Charles were discussing about what to do with the five remaining mutants, who had quickly surrounded at them after hearing of their leader's fall. As far as he could understand, Charles was asking her to leave Angel out of the matter, and present her disappearance as an abduction. He knew what they would do her, if she was to be captured._

_Erik didn't knew what to think about the matter, and had preferred not to intervene. At the moment, he just wanted to sit there, trying to appease the headache that had formed behind his eyes for the prolonged use of his powers, and stop thinking for a while. Shaw's helmet was resting between his hands, still covered with sand and sea water. He didn't know what to do with it, but just leave it forgotten in the beach (waiting for Russians and Americans to find it and fight over it) hadn't seemed like a wise decision._

_Later, when everyone was onboard and the airplane was high in the sky again, Charles would sit beside him and stare at the strange object, with narrowed eyes. Everyone had seen him stopping the missiles, back in the beach; letting them fall to the dark, deep ocean, and then backing away, ultimately ignoring the warships before them and the danger that they represented. “Acting like the better man” someone had said; at the moment, he couldn't remember who. But Charles had been the only one to see him confront Shaw; the only one who saw him facing the possibility to end or spare the wretched man's life, and doubt. Erik didn't know how to feel about that._

_Charles didn't said anything about it, thought. He just sent a small, reasurring smile at his way, and let the matter be for the moment. During their journey back to the mansion, they stayed in silence, their shoulders slightly touching, and for some reason, Erik felt relieved. Relieved by the silence maybe; to not be asked questions that he couldn't even respond to himself, to not speak about matters that he had long ago decided never speak about again. Even when he couldn't conceive them as consistent ideas, but as blurry memories and confusing feelings, Charles could sense everything that was and had been crossing Erik's mind. He could sense his anger, his confusion and his fears, without needing to ask about them; and even when he couldn't relate to them, he could try to understand them. At the moment, that strange form of compression seemed enough for Erik._

 

* * *

 

Charles was sitting on the edge of his bed. At his side, resting over the mattress, lay a fair number of unsigned documents and letters that, over the recent weeks, had been arriving by mail. They had been sent by the Minister of Education (probably written by his secretaries and not by himself, judging by the elegant writting) who had stayed in close touch with Charles after he presented him the idea of the School for Gifted Youngsters. He had spread the papers through the entire place, trying to classify them and read them more carefully. It was fitting, somehow. In the very same room where he had once worked in long, tedious conferences, and restlessly studied for his final tests, he had signed all the paper work that would allow him to found his own school. 

Charles looked up and through the window. Night had fallen, and the lights were been turned on in the whole mansion. It was time for dinner, he realized, looking at the clock. In this house, meals had a very peculiar routine. Normally, four groups were formed between their residents: Havok, Angel and Banshee stayed in the first floor, arranging a rather loud dinner in the living room; Hank stayed in the second floor and inside his laboratory, usually alone and working in one of his inventions; and Raven and Azazel stayed in the kitchen, constantly laughing and screaming at each other. Erik and Charles were to stay in the third floor, in a small dining room that faced a balcony. They didn't like to spent too much time together; as much as they appreciated each other, all the residents of the mansion were very different, and most of them had rather strange issues to deal with. Sometimes, being alone (or at least with little, but amicable company) was good.

Dinnertime is not something peculiarly interesting. Families gather for an hour or two. They talk about what happened that day, at workplace or at school. Everything is very normal and sometimes boring. However, that day Charles found himself missing those boring moments, for they were surely better than the discussion that was about to start. He turned his head towards the other side of the room, and found Erik standing in the door frame, looking straight at him. He had been there for quite a while now, not knowing what to say after they exchanged a rather awkward greeting. He couldn0t decide wherever to come in and sit beside him, or just stand there and wait for Charles to invite him in. The man couldn't bring himself to do it, thought. He couldn't talk. He couldn't move. His tongue felt as dry as an old carpet, and his limbs and head felt numb and useless. He had never been good for direct confrontations.

Finally, Erik was the one who yielded.

He approached the bed carefully, as one who doesn't know if the act would be welcomed, and after a few minutes of hesitation, he decided to settle in the chair of Charles's desk, his back facing the window. Charles didn't need to read his mind to know that he was nervous. Erik was good hiding those things, but he could tell. He could see it in the eyes that kept avoiding his gaze, and in the slightly hunched shoulders. He was wise enough to not say anything about it, thought. It would only make things worse.

Erik clasped his hands together, letting them rest over his right knee. When he began to talk, he was purposely not looking in Charles's direction. “What happened last night…” He started, in a strangely deep voice. He wanted to be sure that his voice was not wavering, as the one of the sick, wounded person that he had imagined to be during the early hours of the morning. Right now, Erik needed to sound calm and collected. “You know that is was an accident… don't you?” He asked, dreading what answer he could receive. Dreading the explanations he would have to give.

His partner stayed silent at that, not really knowing what to respond.

“Charles, I didn't meant to-” He tried again, leaning forwards. Charles cut him off immediately.

“I know.” He said calmly, not a hint of doubt in his voice. Charles had a way of cutting every word that made their meaning unmistakable. His way of speaking had a force that most man of his age (or even older) could never hope to achieve; a badge of sobriety that, probably for his disheveled appearance, seemed extremely off character. “I know it wasn't on purpose.” He insisted, looking strangely calm.

Erik stared at him for a moment, feeling a wave of sorrow wash upon him. He didn't knew exactly what this sensation was; if it was fear, or guilt or anger; but whatever it was, it hurt and he wanted it _out_. He licked his lips absently, sensing the edges of dry skin under his tongue, and tried to speak again. A huffed giggle was what came out. “… I don't even remember it.” He managed, between a strange, humorless laugh that was bitter to hear.

“… What do you mean, you don't remember it?”

“I know that it happened, because…” Erik went silent, then, and finally looked up. The first sight that greeted him were the red, angry marks around Charles's neck (probably not because they were so painfully visible, but because he had been looking for them) and instantly felt bile rise up his throat. “I _know_ it happened. But I can't remember it. It's gone. I have not memory of it. No way of…” He went silent once again, and felt the sudden need of slapping himself. All his intentions of being reasonable had disappeared instantly in a sea of choppy and poorly conceived phrases.

Feeling that the sense of numbness in his body was disappearing, Charles realized that he could move again, and stood slowly form his place over the mattress. He approached his partner carefully, and only stopped moving forwards when he was right in front of Erik, looking at him straight at the eyes. For a moment he just looked up at Charles, feeling puzzled. Speechless.

Erik shook his head from side to side, as if the movement could loosen the ideas stuck inside him, in blackened places that he could not reach anymore. “I'm sorry…” He said, swallowing hard. “… for what happened. I truly am.” He said. His voice didn't waver, and his face remained almost completely unexpressive. Yet there was something in the way his head tilted to the side, and his clear eyes looked at him (blue during the night, greens during the day, and grey; only when it rained) that made Charles's chest hurt.

“…I know you are.” He responded, not knowing what else to say. Things weren't okay, and he was not going to fool himself or Erik by saying that they were, or that they didn't matter. They weren't good at lying to themselves. 

Erik stared at him for a moment, feeling speechless again, and looked down.

Without a word, he moved forwards, resting his head over Charles's thigh. He froze for a moment, perhaps out of surprise; for this was not something that Erik normally did. He tried to reach out, then (brushing the man's mind carefully) and could feel a lot of things; none of them very consistent. There was relief, he could feel it, but there was sorrow as well (maybe it was guilt, or sadness; it wa too abstract to tell for sure). Charles's licked his lips, nervously, feeling how Erik's arms circled his waist, gripping tightly. He ran a hand through his brown hair; soft, short strands glided between his fingers.

Finally, Erik relaxed. None of them moved for a while. His leg would go numb soon, Charles knew, but couldn't bring himself to care. At that moment, he could only feel the weight of Erik's head over his thigh, and the steady rhythm of his breathing. It was just the two of them, and the silence of the room. The rest of the world didn't matter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, finally, the second chapter! :D
> 
> I'm sorry if I took to long to update, but seriously, this chapter just didn't want to be written! 
> 
> If you, for some reason, found Raven a little OCC, is because while this is story where the Beach Divorce never happens, what happened in Cuba affected her a lot, so she is mostly like First Class Raven, but also a little bit like Days of Future Past Raven. It's pretty much the same with all the other characters. (Except Charles, he just let his hair grow because he wanted a change of appearence :P)
> 
> Anyway, I hope you have liked the chapter, and if you did, please leave feedback!
> 
> FYI: "Solnuzhka" is a russian petname that literally means My Little Sunshine.


	3. a game of chess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes they played chess; a hobby that Charles had learned from his father, before he passed away, and that against all odds Erik had learned on his own before coming to America for the first time. Despite the lack of a suitable teacher, chess had always been Erik's favorite game; the fact that it was probably the only intellectual exercise in which he could overtake Charles had made it all the more enjoyable. That night, they sat in front of the chessboard again.

At nightfall, after dinner, none of the kids went upstairs to visit Charles' bedroom, as they used to do. There was a time when Raven would come to him in this dark hours, looking for food, drinks and a pleasant conversation; more often than not, Azazel, her ill fated lover, would come along, his dark red skin always making a startling contrast with her blue one. Sometimes, Banshee, Angel and Havoc would be there too, and other times they would all gather together to share an entertaining evening. Lately, however, Charles began to feel tired of the paper of host he had to perform every night, and when the kids noticed this, they started to keep some distance. The travels he did to the center of the city every day to get the permissions he needed to open the school always left him exhausted, and at night he only wanted to take a bath, eat and go to sleep. The only person in the whole mansion that was allowed to interrupt this night ritual was Erik, who (despite not being a particularly quiet man) wasn't prone to demand all the attention that the group of teenagers always seemed to expect from him.

Normally, at these hours they didn't have anything to do. Sometimes they played chess; a hobby that Charles had learned from his father, before he passed away, and that against all odds Erik had learned on his own before coming to America for the first time. Despite the lack of a suitable teacher, chess always been Erik's favorite game; the fact that it was probably the only intellectual exercise in which he could overtake Charles had made it all the more enjoyable. That night, they sat in front of the chessboard again.

Lost in the pleasure of lifting the weight of each chess piece in his fingers, Erik never raised his gaze from the board; his eyes were fixed on it as though he were possessed. His attitude seemed to hint to an extraordinary attention, but actually he was just focused in the trivial order of the black lines and it's symmetrical intersections. Charles, who had promised himself that he wouldn't look into his partner's mind during these sessions, didn't know it, and Erik's attitude was worrying him. _Was he thinking about the game, or about something else?_   He observed the man, also lost in the pleasure of flighty abstraction, and looked at the white teeth that were barely visible in his mouth ajar; the small clear eyes that kept roaming the chessboard, the traces of beard along his jawline. 

Sometimes, Erik's chess pieces hit roughly the board, provoking a loud sound that always made Charles flinch. In these cases, he would look fortuitously at his partner's face, and place his pieces carefully in the board, as though he were berating him. Normally, when Erik did this it meant that something was bothering him. For a moment, Charles wondered if he was thinking about what had happened the other night, and unconsciously, lifted his hand to touch his neck.

After that incident, Erik came back to his room at the other end of the hall. They didn't talk about it; after the conversation they had the next day, he started to collect his things and Charles hadn't said anything to stop him. It was the best thing they could do, really. If Erik had become violent in his sleep once, it was most likely that it would happen again. That wasn't something any of them wanted to experience a second time.

Their relationship hadn't changed, despite everything. Erik would stay in Charles' bedroom until late at night, and come back to his own whenever he started to feel tired. Sometimes they had sex. Sometimes they didn't. When they were in the mood, they turned on the radio or the record player. Recently, they both agreed that television was a horrible invention that only served to make your eyes melt inside your skull, so unless very important news were on air, the set remained turned off. It wasn't very different from before, really, except for the fact that they didn't sleep in the same bedroom. Charles couldn't complain.

Raven still wasn't conform with their decision. She said that it was inconceivable that a professor graduated with honors in Oxford could be as senseless as an abused house wife when it came to romantic relationships. Charles could understand why she was so angry, but he also thought that sooner or later she would get over this. At least, Raven didn't even seem to be angry at Erik, but at Charles for being so stubborn. “He just needs help. I'm not blaming this on him.” She said when he asked her for explanations, and at the time it had made him laugh. Later, however, he would think about the word _help_  more carefully, and he would wonder… Did Erik need help? Some type of treatment? Perhaps a doctor? Charles didn't knew. He couldn't see the minds of others in the way a psychologist did. It was more complicated than that.

Erik moved one of his pieces, taking down his bishop. Lost in his thoughts, it took more time for Charles to make his move than it normally did. Knowing Erik, he knew that just by mentioning the word _doctor_ he would get defensive; he would say that he didn't need a stranger messing around with his head, that he wouldn't revive what had happened in the camps ever again, especially not in front of a nosy human. His aversion towards non-mutants had grown considerably after the incident in Cuba, and besides Moira, Erik hadn't seen one in months. Perhaps, that was the reason why he didn't want to leave the mansion; to stay with his kin and protect them from harm, all the while ignoring the world full of humans that lay in the outside. Charles didn't share his opinion (he couldn't) but he could understand it. Even he had a hard time being neutral when it came to humans, after what happened.

A human doctor wasn't their only option, thought. Charles had meet many mutants during his days in Oxford, even thought he had never let them know about his gift; some people felt better thinking that no one knew about their secret. Perhaps, Erik would feel better if his doctor were a mutant, like him? It was a possibility, and Charles couldn't discard it so easily. As he watched how Erik moved his horse to make checkmate on his king for the third time that evening, he told himself that he would brought up the matter the next morning, during breakfast. His partner would be hesitant at the beginning, he knew, but Charles was sure that with a little bit of convincement, he would agree to his proposal. It was the best things he could do, after all.


End file.
